


You Think You Have Time

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Captain America: The first Avenger AU, Don't Ask, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, There's also a dog, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, World War II, follows endgame theory of time travel, i don't know what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23258035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: In which 21 year old Tony Stark, freshly orphaned, drunk sciences himself to the 1940s and meets Steve Rogers.“You’re him. Rogers. Cap.” Tony finds himself blurting out. Not his finest moment, granted.Rogers’ face does a confused twist at his first words, but clears a little at the title.“That was my father. Captain Joseph Rogers,” he explains with a puzzled look. “Did you know him?”“No.”Rogers’ frown deepens in bafflement, but he remains quiet, likely waiting for Tony to elaborate.Tony doesn’t. They stare at each other in deafening silence for some good fifteen seconds.Awkward.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 106





	1. Crash Landing

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the stony fandom!  
> I'm not really 100% satisfied with how this turned out (more like a shaky 75%), but I'm still putting it out there in case someone likes it.  
> I've always loved time travel fics (and I have a thing for the 40s so this just hits all the right notes) and I wanted to try my hand at one!

**Date: Unknown**

Tony groans. His brain feels like it just got stuffed into a car compactor and mushed into putty, not to mention his whole mouth tastes as appetizing as an old sock _._ What the hell did he do last night?

Something wet licks at his cheek.

He scrunches his face up in disgust and turns his head to the side. The thing licks again.

 _God_ , his head hurts. 

His first attempt at opening his eyes is remarkably unsuccessful, serving only to boost his headache up to unprecedented levels of agony. Where the hell did all that light come from? It’s not supposed to be so bright is it? He was… in his lab, he thinks. As far as he can remember. Everything got pretty fuzzy after his eight shot of whiskey.

That had been the goal though. Forget. Forget about his absolute asshole of a father who somehow managed to wrap his fucking car around a tree, and his mother who—his mother— _oh god, his mother._ He couldn’t— he couldn’t think about this. No. He can’t—

That damned wet thing touches his cheek again.

He shoots his arm out, bodily shoving away at the general direction of whatever was _licking his face_ with a growl of blind anger and frustration.

There’s a surprised yelp, and Tony cracks one eye open against the stupid-bright morning light.

Ah shit, he just shoved a dog. Great, he’s a dog shover now. They can put that on his grave, under disappointing son, whenever he follows his dead parents to it.

The stray sits on its hind legs a couple feet away, a seemingly offended and hurt expression on its face as it stares at him with an unsettlingly accusing pair of bright amber eyes.

It doesn’t look like much, the poor thing. It’s thin as a rake and its dull walnut fur is dirty and matted in thick knots. It was probably hungry.

Behind the dog, he notes a knocked over trash can with some old looking food scraps scattered about. Yuck.

Wait. Wasn’t he supposed to be in his lab? This is definitely not his lab. This is a random back alley with smelly scraps of old burger meat and fish bones tossed around in God knows where. How the fuck did he get here?

He pushes himself up to a sitting position against the wall behind him, tries not to think about how filthy it probably is and ignores the way his stomach rebels at the movement.

He gives himself a cursory pat down and is relieved to find his wallet still in his possession. So, nobody tried to rob him. Strange. He was in a bit of a compromising position, and alone from the looks of it.

He opens his wallet and counts what he still has in it. A couple crumpled fifty-dollar notes and a hundred-dollar one, plus some spare change. Good, that should be enough to get him home. He just had to find out where here was, hopefully he was still in New York.

He finishes his search and finds his car keys (the corvette’s), which are useless since he doesn’t know where his car is, and a pack of mint gum. Ok. Now he just needs to grab a cab and get back to the manor before Obie realizes he’s missing. And possibly drink this whole day away. Scratch that. Definitely drink this whole day away.

The dog is still giving him the side eye.

He lets his head drop against the wall he’s propped up against with a weary sigh, looking heavenwards as if the sky will somehow grant him the magic solution to all his problems. Not praying, never praying, because if there really was a God, it wouldn’t have taken his mom now, would it? His dad? Sure, and they could keep the bastard. But his _mom_?

And he really needed to stop thinking about this now.

“Sorry about that, Fido. You caught me in a bad day,” he rasps out, reaching out a hand in apology and letting it hover in the air before the dog.

The animal stares at the offered limb for a few seconds in apparent apprehension, until curiosity wins out and it take a few steps forwards, sniffing at it.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement as the dog apparently loses any shred of a grudge he was keeping and starts pushing insistently at his open palm with his muzzle. Tony scratches behind the mutt’s ear and stands up, brushing the dirt off his clothes.

Huh, he was still in his aged ac-dc shirt and oil stained sweat shorts, he hadn’t changed out of his workshop wear last night. Which means he hadn’t put much thought into his impromptu outing either.

He stretches out the sore muscles in his body, which are quite a few – the aftermath of passing out on a stone paved back alley – and stumbles out onto the street, followed by the dog. 

The outside scene freezes him in his tracks as soon as he lays eyes on it.

What the fuck.

He looks like he just crash landed on the set of a bad forty’s movie. The street is littered with _ancient_ Cadillacs and Bentleys, every single man is walking around all decked out in a dark suit ensemble, complete with a fedora and everything.

Is this someone’s fucked up idea of a prank? _Why_?

He is frozen in place for a good thirty seconds, looking at his surrounding in utter shock.

His presence doesn’t go unnoticed for long, though. A woman in a flowery knee length dress and an impressively curly hairstyle walking on his side of the road shoots him a sneer before hurriedly crossing the street. A gang of men who were congregating in a small group outside what appeared to be a bar take notice of the action and start leering at him.

“Get out of here, you hophead!” one of them jeers, earning cheers of support from his friends.

What the hell even is hophead?

Tony gives them the finger, watching in satisfaction as a look of outrage blooms on their faces and saunters over to drinks mobile stand he spotted a few yards away.

He hears the other men discouraging the one who wants to go after him for flipping the bird but doesn’t even bother turning his head to look at him. Let him try. He’d have the bastard thrown in jail with but a simple phone call. Now he just needed to find out a way out of this lunatic town.

He approaches the drinks man, who is clad in obviously more worn down and tattered clothes, although still in a very evident forties style. The man arches an eyebrow as he notices him approaching, looking him up and down. 

“Did ya have a rough night, son?” The man smirks at him, showing yellowing teeth.

“You could say that,” Tony drawls, squinting against the morning light. “Happen to know where we are?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up in his forehead and he lets out a few chuckles.

“That bad, huh?”

Tony lets out a little grunt, starting to lose his patience with the man.

“That’s fifth avenue right there, son!” The man points behind Tony. “The richest of them all! Might want to scramble your ass out of here before they call the coppers on ya.”

What? Great, the crackpots keep coming.

Tony rolls his eyes and turns his back on the obviously crazy man. He’s about to walk away when something strangely familiar gives him pause.

He must be going a bit crazy too, cause that spot of green at the end of what the other man called fifth avenue, the disposition of the buildings and the streets, everything seems eerily reminiscent of the actual street. And that’s impossible.

He walks forward, ignoring the people who continue to give him side glares. He reaches the trees he spotted from across the street and stares at a sign board in befuddlement. It reads Central Park. It _looks_ like central park.

What the actual fuck is going on?

People are still looking him like he’s an alien who just took a shit in their backyards, so he scurries into the park. The stray trots after him.

He wanders through the trees, in a complete confounding state, staring dumbly at every landmark that rings a bell of recognition inside his head.

This is insane. He must be on acid trip. It’s the only plausible explanation. The only strange thing about it is how oddly focused and realistic everything is.

He lets himself drop to the ground against a tree, landing in the moist thick grass. The dog lays down in front of him, resting his muzzle on his front paws and shooting Tony what he would describe as a pitying look.

Fuck. What the hell is happening to him?

He loses count of time as he sits there, just waiting for something to happen. Perhaps for a hidden crowd to jump out and scream ‘Psyche’ at him, or maybe to wake up from an alcoholic coma to the figure of Rhodey giving him the glare of death from the hospital’s visiting chair. He’s just numbly waiting for the bizarre scene before him to disappear, and for things to return to normal.

Maybe it had all been a nightmare, and he was going to wake up any minute now to his mother shooting him a disapproving look from his bedroom door for getting drunk and wandering out on his own again. He can only hope.

In the end, it isn’t the reversal of this unbelievable hallucination from hell that makes him move, it’s hunger.

It’s getting dark and he hasn’t had anything solid to eat for… he doesn’t know how long. Probably a very long time. Longer than was healthy for sure. He can _feel_ Rhodey scolding him in the back of his head.

His stomach starts grumbling in complaint, so he gets up, dusts himself off and enlists the stray’s help in sniffing down some sort of food selling place.

They’re successful about fifteen minutes into their search, coming across a small hot dog stand next to the lake. There are only three people in line, so thankfully the wait won’t be long.

He approaches the line, feeling just the tiniest bit self-conscious to be in public for what was probably the first time in many, many years of his life. Which is completely absurd, these people are the crazy ones, not him.

Nevertheless, he gets in line and ignores the repulsed looks shot his way, focusing instead on the price signs advertised in the stand.

The lettering on the board makes him do a double take.

Holy shit, are the hot dogs actually being sold for twenty cents each? You can barely get a hot dog under two dollars and a half within a ten-mile radius of central park. This crazy land has its perks after all. Not that money is usually a problem for him.

The people in front of him eventually get their orders and scurry off to get away from him in a very not inconspicuous way. He rolls his eyes and steps forward.

The man at the stand shoots him a suspicious look but doesn’t mention anything regarding his current state of dress as he questions Tony on what he’ll be wanting.

Tony asks for a simple hot dog and fishes out his wallet while the man gets his order ready. The newspapers set in a pile on top of the counter catch his attention as he digs through his wallet for some coins.

“How much for a newspaper?” he asks the man, who was in the process of putting what looked like a measly amount of dressing on the sausage.

“Three cents.”

Tony nods, once again surprised at the low price and grabs one. The first thing that he notices is the headline written in big bold letters that calls attention to a War in Europe. He feels a foreboding tendril of trepidation setting in the pit of his stomach, just as his gaze lands on the date printed on the top of the page.

His eyes widen in shock.

It reads December 18th, 1940. Right day, wrong year.

If this is prank, it’s reaching unimaginable and unrealistic proportions. Who would want to inflict this kind of misery on him? Ok, maybe he can think of a few people, but would they actually have the resources and creativity to think this up and pull it off? He thinks not.

It would involve impossible mobilizing of resources in terms of logistics, since replicating a big portion of New York city in mid twenty century style is not an easy feat, not mention recruit dozens of people to dress up and act the part. Also, he’s met a lot of actors in his time, and none of them were this convincing.

Besides, what kind of a revenge plan is this?

A noise of impatience from the food stand man brings him out of his musings. The man holds out both his hands, hot dog in one and expecting open palm in the other.

Right, he’s supposed to pay. Twenty-three cents. Fuck, was currency even the same in 1940?

He shakily pulls out a quarter and places it on the waiting hand, taking his hot dog with the other and hoping the man doesn’t look at the series number too closely.

As soon as the man closes his fist around the money, Tony turns his back and hurries off with the stray in tow, before the man has a chance to notice he’d just been given a future coin.

There are no cries of alarm shouted in his direction, so it looks like he lucked out. He finds the little secluded spot he was occupying before and sits down against the tree again, laying the newspaper in the ground next to him.

Shit. Is he really in 1940?

Between an alcoholic hallucination and the very improbable possibility of time travel, the former was honestly sounding more plausible. Maybe he’d finally lost his mid.

He picks at his hot dog and rips a chunk of it off to toss to the stray. The dog immediately devours it, licking at its chops. Tony lets out a snort and eats the rest, thumbing through the newspaper.

It looked like the US hadn’t entered the war yet, which fell in line with the official American 1940s story. If he remembered his history correctly, they hadn’t gotten involved until after the attack on pearl harbor, which took place on December 7th, 1941.

Damn, he needs a drink.

Maybe if he gets drunk enough, he’ll wake up back in his home and everything will have been a stupid dream. Hey, it’s worked once before.

He just needs to find a place where they won’t stare him to death for daring to breathe the same air.

He stands up and starts walking in a random direction, it’s not like he’s got anywhere urgent to go.

He comes across a few more people in his trek, but they mostly steer clear of him. His heavy frown is probably not doing him any favors in earning sympathy points.

He eventually reaches an exit and wanders out of the park, looking for street signs to tell him where he is.

It looks like time’s square is up ahead, and he might have better luck there. 

He walks in a daze, staring at the buildings all around him. Noting how fundamentally _wrong_ everything looked.

There were increasingly more people on the street, and they looked less uptight the further away he got form fifth avenue, so it was easier to get by unnoticed.

He spots a bar that seems less reputable, judging from the look of the people loitering on the street before it, and steps inside. The stray doesn’t follow him in this time.

There are a few tables and a shabby looking bar at the end of the room, so heads there, intending on buying a bottle of their strongest stuff.

The barman’s in the process of cleaning a glass as he approaches the counter.

He catches the man’s attention with a wave.

“How much for a bottle of scotch?”

The barman’s brows go up at the question. “The whole bottle?”

“That’s what I said,” Tony barks, frowning harder in an attempt to discourage the man from asking anymore questions.

“That would be one dollar and a half.”

Tony digs out one of the crumpled fifty-dollar notes and slaps it on the counter. The man’s eyes widen in obvious shock, but he refrains from commenting as he fetches Tony the change. He doesn’t notice the wrong year on the note either.

Tony grabs the bottle and takes a big mouthful of the liquid, feeling the familiar burn of alcohol light a path down his throat.

He strolls back outside to drink himself into oblivion. Hopefully the next time he opens his eyes he’ll be home.

**Date: 1940 December 19 th – Thursday**

Tony moans and brings his hands up to his head, trying to somehow pressure his headache into nonexistence. When that doesn’t work, he uses a hand to shelter his eyes from the morning light that assaults his sight as his eyelids flicker open.

He grunts and pushes himself up, surveying his surroundings with bleary eyes.

With growing dismay, he finds that he is in yet another back alley in what still looks very much like 1940s New York. No dog this time though.

Well, drinking himself into oblivion for a second time didn’t work. He has no fucking clue what to do now. Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck_.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

His breathing has started to pick up and his hands are shaking worse than an engine with a faulty crankshaft damper. He rockets to his feet and paces, trying to get his breathing under control. The last he needs right now is to lose his shit over an already shitty situation.

He forces himself to stop and closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He tries to think about his current situation from a clinical and logical point of view.

He’s stuck, in what appears to be New York city of the 1940s. He has no idea how he got here, but he knows that he got drunk in his lab the night before, which meant he probably tried to do some drunk science.

He’d been meaning to look into a few Pym particle research papers, which he definitely acquired through absolutely legal means (ok, so maybe he hacked into some government files, their firewalls are laughable anyway), that shed some light on the technology the scientist had been working on before stepping down three years ago after the death of his wife.

The internet was an amazing place after all, and he was planning on making good use of it (meaning to hack into very juicy and interesting pages).

Tony was curious, ok? So, if he somehow inadvertently figured out how to time travel through some arguably unlawfully obtained reports, then… well, that just went to prove his genius.

Although it also meant he was in deep shit. According to the Deutsch proposition and its circumvention of the grandfather paradox, he was in a completely different parallel universe.

Which also meant that his chances of returning to his original time-correct universe were close to null.

 _Shit_.

Pushing back the panic that was rearing its ugly head again he rushes out of the back alley. There are some other people already outside, but he was still near the bar he’d gotten his liquor from last night, so he didn’t get that many looks thrown his way.

A lot of people here seemed to be in a similar situation to him anyway – i.e. homeless. And isn’t that ironic? Former billionaire playboy Tony Stark with two hundred bucks to his name and no place to crash.

Well, the best thing to do is to start correcting at least one of those things.

“Hey,” he says to one ragged looking man sitting in the steps to one of the bars. “Do you know where I can find a cheap place to sleep?”

The man’s eyes take a while to focus on him, but he eventually responds in a raspy voice with, “Brooklyn and the Bronx have some boarding houses that will make you lower prices than any of the ratholes around here.” He gives a sluggish wave of his hand and burps.

Tony wrinkles his nose and nods in thanks. He turns around and starts walking in what he judges is the direction of Brooklyn. It’s the closer of the destinations, considering he has to make the trip on foot, and possibly safer.

He passes another men’s clothing store as he walks, and hesitates for a while, eyeing the suits exhibited on the shop’s window. Having era appropriate clothes would probably make his stay in the apparent 1940s smoother.

He goes inside the store; his arrival being announced through the ringing of the bell hung on the front door. The tailor’s head immediately shoots up at the foretelling sound and his eyes land on Tony.

Under the usual suspicious look that Tony is getting really tired of, he walks up to the other man.

“I need a suit,” he states, eyeing the various clothes hung around the store. His gaze lands on some suitcases perched in a rack. “And maybe one of those cases.” 

The man looks at him pointedly and arches a brow, “You’ve got the clams to pay for it?”

Tony rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance as he digs out his wallet to flash the man his hundred-dollar bill.

“Satisfied?” Tony hisses at the now surprised man.

The man nods frenziedly and his demeanor changes entirely. He is much more amenable to Tony as he helps him select the best fitting suit and even assists in picking out a case.

Everything goes smooth enough, and Tony uses the change he’d gotten after buying that bottle of scotch the previous night, so he doesn’t have to worry about the money being invalid. The suit and case cost a total of 9 dollars, an underwhelming amount in his time, but he’s starting to worry about his depleting cash fund.

He stuffs his previous clothes inside the case (it’s not like he’s getting rid of his band shirt, he loves that shirt) and in under ten minutes he’s out of the store, no longer sticking out like a sore thumb in the crowded streets of NY and on his way to Brooklyn.

Hopefully he can find someplace with an actual bed where he can spend the next few nights, just until he figures out his next course of action.

He takes another twenty minutes to reach the Brooklyn bridge, but when he does, he stops for a few seconds, taking in the view.

It’s not that different from 1991 New York, if you didn’t account for the vastly different clothing style. People were still hurrying off and onto the bridge, in the eternal hustle and bustle typical of NY, and there were even the occasional tourists around.

He could close his eyes and almost pretend to be home for a second.

But he isn’t; he’s imminently broke and alone in an unknown version of his hometown. And it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to come to his rescue.

He turns away from the river and starts crossing the bridge, he still has a distance to walk.

Once he makes it into Brooklyn, he asks around for the most affordable boarding houses to look for and is directed to Brooklyn heights.

As he reaches the place he was directed to, he starts noticing signs announcing a boarding house with vacancies and breathes a sigh of relief.

At least he won’t be sleeping out in the cold, tonight or in the close future, so long as he has money, and no one realizes it isn’t exactly valid.

He’s about to head inside when something else catches his attention and he freezes. He stares at the familiar shape sitting on a bench facing the small garden outside one of the building complexes.

The man is lean and scrawny, he could almost be mistaken for a child where he sat doubling over himself to doodle on the notebook propped open on his thighs. There was something very oddly familiar about him though.

He takes a few steps closer and gets a glimpse of the man’s face as he slightly raises his head to shoot a look at the Brooklyn bridge.

Well, fuck him. That is Steve Grant Rogers. Captain extraordinaire and long-standing idol of one Howard Stark.

He’d recognize that face anywhere; even if he hadn’t spent the better part of his childhood being held to same standards as the star spangled legend and reminded of how very much _not_ like him he was at every chance his father got, there was a never ending collection of memorabilia and old records and photos dedicated to the man back in his dad’s office back in the manor.

Stuff that he used to flip through when he was young and naïve, and thought he could somehow earn his father’s respect if he learned all he could about the late hero. After all, there was no one Howard Stark respected more than the great Steven Rogers.

Needless to say, that plan didn’t exactly pan out.

Rogers seems to sense someone watching him and raises his head again, looking around with a confused frown on his face until his gaze lands on Tony. His frown deepens as he realizes Tony has been staring at him. 

Well it’s not like Tony feels a compelling need to be liked by the hero. He’s an unstable mess on his good days, and he’s fine with it, he doesn’t need the other man’s validation. He’d learnt to stop expecting things like that a long time ago.

Rogers gives him a once over and shoots him a funny look.

“Is there something you need, mister?”

Tony stares at the man some more. He really looks different without all those extra muscle pounds.

“You’re him. Rogers. Cap.” Tony finds himself blurting out. Not his finest moment, granted.

Rogers’ face does a confused twist at his first words, but clears a little at the title.

“That was my father. Captain Joseph Rogers,” he explains with a puzzled look. “Did you know him?”

“No.”

Rogers’ frown deepens in bafflement, but he remains quiet, likely waiting for Tony to elaborate.

Tony doesn’t. They stare at each other in deafening silence for some good fifteen seconds.

Awkward.

Rogers finally breaks the silence after a while, the awkwardness likely proving to be too great for him, “Then how’d you know his name?”

Yeah, what kind of explanation is Tony supposed to pull out of his ass that won’t buy him a ticket to the next looney bin? There are no good options, so he simply shrugs.

It proves not to be the best tactic. Rogers is less than appeased, evidently growing irritated by the second.

“Look mister, I don’t know what you’re playing at but—”

“Forget it,” Tony cuts in, giving a dismissive wave of his hand, “Thought you were someone else. But you’re evidently more… scrawny.”

Rogers immediately bristles at the word, making Tony smirk in amusement. That definitely hit a nerve.

Before Rogers can start a tirade on the many reasons why he was so righteous and Tony was so not, Tony hurries off and ducks inside the boarding house, leaving a fuming American icon in his wake.

Well, it’s good to know his assholery skills are still intact at the very least.


	2. Auto Shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it took me a while, but I’ve finally managed chapter two! Hopefully the next one won’t take as much time 😅 but considering the amount of things i’m working on, it’s a possibility.
> 
> So, this is kind of ironic since my parents technically own a car shop, but I don’t actually know anything about cars other than the quick research I did for this chapter, so, take this with a grain of salt — or the whole saltshaker, really

**Date: 1940 December 20th – Friday**

Tony rolls around in the hard mattress, refusing to let the first rays of morning light chase him from the bed. He’s never awake before noon as a general rule, waking up with the sun because the boarding house he’s forced to crash in doesn’t even have enough money for decent blinds is the stuff of his nightmares. And it doesn’t look like he’s escaping this particular one anytime soon.

He’d gone inside yesterday, after his riveting conversation with America’s first all-star superhero, and bought himself a stay for the week from the gruffy old man sporting an impressive pot belly that was manning what passed for a reception. He has to present payment no later than each monday on the dot or he gets the boot.

Things could be worse, though. The rent costs only about seven dollars a week and includes dinner, accommodations, laundry and cleaning. Thank god for inflation -- words he never thought he would find himself thinking.

His current cash reserves leave him at one hundred and eighty-one dollars and seventy-seven cents. Which will last him for approximately three months, if he saves up and buys nothing other than what’s absolutely necessary, that is -- which is _so_ not his style. He should probably find a job.

What would he even do, though? He has no credentials (even though his certified genius is pretty much unparalleled) and he’s still not sure if he should make himself known here. He has no idea where _here_ even is. It looks like his world, sure, a past version of it, but nothing guarantees him that events will play out exactly the same. It isn’t his universe, after all, not really -- if what he thinks happened actually happened. It might _become_ his, considering science says it’s doubtful he will actually be able to find a way out of it.

And isn’t that a scary thought.

He has no idea what he’s gonna do if he never sees Rhodey again. His money, his fame, all that stuff, sure it will sting that he doesn’t have it -- it already does, _a lot_ \-- and he’d give anything to have it again, but he has to actively avoid the thought of his best friend or he starts feeling the beginnings of a panic attack setting in.

He hadn’t had one for years prior to last night, when he came up to his room and just… realized that this was it. There’s no way out of it, whatever it is. What he did isn’t correcting itself and he can’t fix it, not like this and not here -- he doesn’t have _any_ resources.

He can feel his breath thinning out again just thinking about it. He forces his brain to cut the train of thought before he starts hyperventilating and triggers another panic frenzy.

Science hasn’t seen the force of nature that is a motivated Tony Stark with a single goal in mind yet. He’ll find the resources, and he’ll do the research and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t actually find a way home again. He’s Tony fucking Stark, he once hacked the pentagon on a dare, he can find a way to revert the accidental miracle of science he single handedly performed, pissed drunk, on a wednesday night.

And when he does it, he… he can go back to the night _before._ He can— he can _stop_ _it from happening._ All he needs to do is convince his parents to stay in that night. He can make this right. He can fix _everything_.

Maybe this is a second chance, after all.

Admitting temporary defeat against the sun, he groans and shoves the flimsy blanket doing a poor job of protecting him against the cold December air -- they don’t even have heating, _god --_ and drags himself to his feet.

He won’t be any good to anyone if he just lays around all day in bed feeling sorry for himself -- and wouldn’t Jarvis be proud of him for this unforeseen change in attitude. Turns out all he needs to gain some maturity and responsibility is to be put under duress in a possibly life-threatening situation -- because let’s face it, how the hell is he supposed to survive alone and empty handed in the midst of an erupting world war?

He takes off the ac-dc t-shirt he used to sleep in last night and dons his single 1940s appropriate outfit. Maybe he should go back to the shop and buy another. And some underwear. He’s definitely gonna need to change at some point and he can’t very well sit nude in the parlor while he waits for his clothes to be washed.

He puts his modern clothing aside, taking care to store the ac-dc shirt inside the case -- he doesn’t want it misplaced, it’s his favorite and one of the only things he has of home -- and slips his wallet into his pocket, leaving the room and locking the door behind him.

The boarding house is almost entirely populated by men, all of which are already up and about. Were all people early risers in the forties? How deplorable.

He follows the voices down the stairs and into the dining room, where most of the tenants appear to have gathered. They all have dishes of what seems like scrambled eggs mixed with a few pitiful scraps of bacon in front of them.

Tony lets his nose lead him to the kitchen, pays the cook for a plate of his own and goes sit down next to the others. He would prefer to keep to a corner and mind his own business, but there aren’t exactly unpopulated spaces in this room -- it’s too small, especially considering the number of people in it.

He ends up choosing a chair next to a group of rowdy men who look about his own age and starts eating. They give him some curious glances, but he mostly ignores them and soon they lose interest, resuming the debate on who’s the raciest broad, Dolores or Linda.

He pushes around the crummy tasting eggs on his plate and eats as much as he can bring himself to. He’s never been much of a morning person, which also means he’s rarely hungry and generally not functional until his third cup of liquid caffeine. He should just get that stuff in IV form. Unfortunately, people here don’t feel quite the same way about coffee as he does, as there’s currently none available at the boarding house -- he’d asked, repeatedly.

When he feels he’s eaten as much as he can without getting nauseous, he sets his plate aside and looks up at the other men. The conversation has shifted from girls to the construction on ninth street they appear to be having a hand in. Perhaps he can ask them if they know where he could go looking for a job himself.

“Hey,” he says, waving a hand to the guy sitting across from him to get his attention. “Do you happen to know where I could find some work?”

The man eyes him with an appraising look, apparently not very impressed with the view if the face he makes is anything to go by. Tony might not be built these irregular-sized joes, but he’s filled up nicely from all the mechanic work he does, if he can say so himself. He isn’t really looking to become a bricklayer, though, he’d prefer something where he could at least pretend he’s putting his uniquely developed set of skills to use.

“There aren’t really open spots on the company right now, though I don’t think that’d be the best thing for ya.”

The rest of his group has quieted down, interest piqued now that Tony has chosen to interact with them.

“Maybe something more mechanic?” he asks tentatively as the men exchange some looks amongst themselves.

Tony’s starting to think he’s not going to get any answer when one of the guys sitting closer to the end leans forward and speaks up, “Larry down on willow street owns a garage. Ya might get lucky if you stop around, ask if he needs a hand.”

A garage job. Nice. He doesn’t know much about the particulars of cars in the 1940s, and how badly they’ll differ from what he’s used to in the future, but he’s a fast learner -- and cars are a secret passion of his. He once assembled his own eight cylinder flat four engine on a personal old project of his.

He suspects the mechanic job will be right up his alley. Now he just has to convince the owner to employ him without any proof of prior experience. Shouldn’t be too hard, provided he gets his hands on a wrench.

Tony nods in gratitude at the group and takes his leave -- he’s got a garage to hunt down.

* * *

It doesn’t take long to find the aforementioned garage. It’s in a little nook of the street, and it looks like it was taken right out of a forties postcard. Which he supposes makes since, since these _are_ the forties. He’s gonna need more time to wrap his head around that.

It’s still early -- he left the boarding house after breakfast; figured he could reach the shop right before opening hours and catch the owner alone -- so the garage door is only half away open.

It’s an obvious sign that they aren’t taking customers yet, but Tony isn’t here as one.

He slips under the door and takes a look inside, heading further into the garage. The interior is relatively small. There’s a couple of cars -- two rovers and a morris -- but not room for much else. The morris is on a rotary car lift, which seems to be the only one in the shop, and one of the rovers has the hood open, its outdated enginery in plain sight.

“We’re not open yet,” a voice rings out from behind him. Tony pivots to see a man in his late forties stepping out of a side room and heading towards the tool tables.

The man has a graying head of hair, with a full beard to match. He’s wearing mechanic clothes, aged and stained with oil -- they’re well worn, from the look of them -- and he’s a little round around the stomach. Must be the shop owner, then -- Larry, he thinks his name was.

“I’m here for a job.”

The man pauses, raising his eyebrows and turning to have a better look at him.

“A job, you say? You have any experience, boy?”

Tony scoffs -- internally because he’s actually trying to get employed and being a little shit won’t help his case right now.

“You could say that.” He can’t turn off _all_ the charm.

The corner of the man’s mouth tips up in amusement -- hopefully a good sign.

“Any concrete references you can show me?”

“Well… not exactly. See, the deal is I’ve had a ton of experience with engineering and mechanics, and I really need a job, but I’ve lost all my documentation.”

“All of it?”

Tony hums and nods, schooling his face into the most dejected expression he can muster.

“That sure seems unfortunate. You’ve got no way to prove your skill then.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_. Give me a few minutes with one of these cars and I’ll show you just how good I am.”

Larry chuckles, giving him another once-over.

“You got spunk, kid. How about this? This one needs the alternator replaced,” he says, tapping the hood of the morris. “You get the old one off, put the new one in, and I’ll consider it.”

“Done.”

The man lets out another chuckle, obviously entertained by his self-assuredness and quick response. Joke’s on him though, the task he’s just been assigned couldn't be easier. He could change an alternator in his sleep. Perhaps he’ll give the car a once over afterwards, study its machinery. He should familiarize himself with the current state of mechanics, after all.

He steps towards the morris, shrugging off his coat and chucking it to the side on top of a chair. It’s a pity he’s gonna get the only appropriate set of clothes he owns dirty. Maybe he should stop by a tailor again when he’s done here. Hopefully by then he’ll have a job and steady paycheck.

Larry has stepped off to the side, letting him take his place in from the morris.

“Oh, and son? You wreck it, you buy it.”

He glances back at Larry and nods once, turning back to pop the hood of the car open.

Because this is an ancient model, the hood release is in the bumper, making his work easier. Its insides will do anything but aid him, however. The only time he’s ever seen enginery like this is behind museum glass. Everything's pretty much in the same place as it is in the modern day, though, thankfully.

In the meantime, Larry has left him to the morris, retreating to the side room he’d come out of before. It must be his office; he’ll sneak a peek once he heads over that way.

He looks around for the alternator inside the engine bay, finding it regrettably out or reach. He’ll have to use the lift to get to it.

He takes about two minutes to figure out how to operate the old system, and soon enough, he has the car enough of a height up to look for the alternator.

The next part is is easy, he locates the piece and disconnects it, using the tools left on the working table. They’re not the ones he’s used to working with — they require more strength of the arm than agility — but he’s nothing if not adaptable.

When he finally gets the alternator out he puts it aside -- he doesn’t know what the Larry intends to do with the old spare part, better safe than sorry -- and retrieves the new one to switch them out.

Putting it back in, now that he’s seen how everything connected in this older model version, is child’s play.

The whole affair takes him a grand total of ten minutes.

Larry hasn’t come out of his office yet, so he looks around for some sort of car chart, finding it near the tools on the table, and checks to see if the vehicle is due for more repairs.

There’s nothing else mentioned for the morris, so he puts the chart back and gives the car a check over himself. He lowers it to the ground and inspects the brake pads, which are looking a little worn. He makes a mental note to tell Larry about it and moves on to the tires. They aren’t new, but they aren’t that bad yet, and they pass the penny inspection just so when he whips one out to test them.

He spots some loose change one of the tool tables as he works, and surreptitiously changes it out with the coins he has. He suspects the change is only there for the same purpose he just used his own penny for, so it’s not like he’s harming anyone by switching it out. Most people he’s had to use money with don’t even notice it’s ‘over’-dated anyway. Who knew Tony Stark would end up money laundering on the daily?

Once he’s done with that, he leans over the hood to check the oil and coolant levels. The oil seems a little low, but the coolant is fine.

He takes a look around the engine after, studying how these models differ from the modern versions he’s used to. He’s distracted, messing around in car inwards, so he doesn’t notice when he stops being alone in the room.

“Humm, who are you?” A deep voice entones from the entrance of the shop.

He whips around, surprised, and finds a man, about his own age, staring at him with a frown on his face. He’s wearing old tattered clothes, like Larry, black stains of what he guesses is oil on them as well. Looks like he won’t be working alone.

He squints at the newcomer, trying to figure out what about him is ringing a bell in his mind. There’s just something… familiar about his face. Tony could swear he’s seen it before.

He has short brown hair — a little on the darker side — in a style typical of this era. He’s built stronger than Tony, and taller, but Tony would wager he’s still handier with a wrench than tall and handsome over there.

“He came in looking for a job,” Larry says as he steps out from the side room again, joining them in the garage.

“What?” the stranger asks, surprise evident in his features.

“Have you changed the alternator yet, son?”

Tony diverts his attention away from the newcomer, whom he just realized he might have been staring a bit too intensely at, and looks back at Larry, letting a smug smile tug on his lips.

“Please, I finished that eons ago. I took the liberty of going over the chart and give it a onceover, though. The brake pads are due for a change, the tires are a little worn but they pass the check and the oil’s low,” he rattles off, numbering out his points with his fingers and taking satisfaction in the way the stranger’s and Larry’s face assume a bewildered tone.

“Is he putting _me_ out of a job?”

“Hmm,” Larry says, a mock-deliberating expression on his face. “Tempting.”

The stranger grabs an oiled stained rag and tosses it at Larry in protest, who chuckles and catches it as it hits him in the shoulder.

“You seem to really know your stuff, kid. Anything you wanna add?”

“Give me some time alone with that engine and a good set of tools and I’ll fine-tune it into an acceptable state, because, honestly, my microwave had better capacity than _that_.”

Well, not acceptable to _him_ , but something at least resembling 70s style engines, which will probably be mind blowing to people in the 40s. He can’t create greatness out of thin air -- he’s a mechanic, not a magician -- he’ll need way better materials and tools to create modern machinery.

“What’s a microwave?” the stranger mumbles, looking at him like he just sprouted wings and chicken legs.

Are microwaves not a thing yet? Shit.

“Just a gadget.”

“You’ve got a job, son,” Larry announces, walking towards the morris and clapping his shoulder on the way. He stops over the open hood, examining Tony’s handiwork.

“You some kind of genius?” the stranger asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Some kind.”

“Well, does the genius have a name?”

“He does,” Tony replies, smirking at him. The stranger raises the other eyebrow, but there is amusement twinking in his eyes. Tony concedes and holds his arm out for the stranger to shake. “Tony Stark.”

He figures keeping his last name won’t be much of a problem. His father may be a bit of celebrity at the moment -- and he really doesn't want to think about his father right now, wow -- but Stark is a common enough last name. He could just as easily have it and not be related to him in any way.

The stranger steps forward and shakes the offered hand. “Nice to meet you, Tony. I’m Bucky Barnes.”

The smile melts off Tony’s face. Fuck.

Now he knows where he recognized his damn face from. He can’t believe this -- out of all the people inhabiting New York in 1940s America, how the hell does he keep running into the ones he least wants to see? Not that he has a long nurtured hate towards Bucky Barnes, but he kind got jumbled together into the same category as Steve Rogers by association.

Barnes frowns, probably because of Tony’s sudden change in demeanor, and lets go of his hand, stepping back.

* * *

Tony runs a hand over his forehead, realizing too late it was smeared with oil. Great.

He grabs a discarded rag that doesn’t seem to be in horrible condition and swipes over the muck, hoping to take make himself a little bit presentable. At least he’d had a productive day.

After impressing both Larry and _Bucky Barnes_ with his mechanic savviness, he’d been asked to start right away, which worked fine with him because he’d need the money. He’d get paid at the end of the week, though, twenty-two dollars. Which would seem like a practical joke in his time but was apparently very reasonable by forties standards.

It was more than enough for him to afford his continued stay in the boarding house, and it left him with a little on the side, so he was more than happy about that. Maybe he could save up, start taking some gigs if the opportunity arose, and get enough money and status to get his hands on the materials he needed to try and figure his way out of this hot mess.

That would take a few years at best, though, and Tony… wasn't sure how he felt about that. Or rather, he knew how he felt and just didn’t want to think about it too closely, because it brought abject terror to mind.

He’ll just try and live in the now for the time being; telling himself that everything about his situation is temporary and all he needs is a lab and a few weeks of caffeine fueled benders to get back to his world and version of events. Denial, it’s not just a river in Egypt.

He also really wants to avoid any and all interaction with anything closely related to Steve Rogers, which is not turning out well for him. Barnes has been trying to get him to talk all day long, and no matter how many vague replies and sullen silences Tony offers in return, nothing seems to shake him.

When they finally finish up for the day, Larry bids them a quick goodbye and Barnes walks with him outside.

“So, where are you headed?” he asks as they exit the garage.

“Home. I’m staying at a boarding house,” Tony explains, slipping into his jacket. Hopefully it’ll cover most of the stains.

He’d rather not tell Barnes where he’s staying exactly, since he’s aware he lived in the vicinity, if not directly _with_ , Steve Rogers in the forties. Which is, unfortunately, the same neighborhood he’s currently living in.

He really should have remembered that tiny little tidbit of information before going over there in the first place, but he hadn’t put two and two together until he saw Rogers himself sitting in that bench the day before.

“You over in cobble hill?”

“No,” Tony offers simply, internally grimacing. Barnes is still waiting on a more detailed response, though, an expectant look on his face, so Tony sighs and bites the bullet. “I’m staying in Brooklyn heights.”

No use in lying about something that could easily be disproved.

“I’m from there too!” Barnes brightens immediately, a grin breaking across his face. “Best hood in Brooklyn, I’m telling you. I can walk you, I’m heading there too.”

So much for avoiding Barnes.

Tony gives a half-hearted shrug and resigns himself to his fate as Barnes falls into pace beside him.

“You new to New York?”

“Not exactly, but I’m between homes right now,” Tony says, figuring he should keep his story as close to the truth as possible. It was the foundation of the lying method after all: keep your story as resembling to your real situation as you can so as to avoid getting caught up in your own lies and making mistakes -- deception one-o-one. Tony had plenty of practice in it.

They keep making small talk as they make their way over to the heights, and if Barnes was anyone else, literally anyone else, Tony might have been feeling glad and thankful for the company -- even he recognized he ought find some friendly acquaintances in the forties to stave off complete insanity.

As it were, everytime Barnes opened his mouth, he acutely reminded Tony of who exactly he was walking next to, which made him think of his connection to Captain America, which in turn dug up a lot of unpleasant memories starring himself and his daddy issues.

Respite came in the form of fine clothing displayed in the window of a tailor’s shop they were currently passing. He’d been meaning to get some more era appropriate clothing, and it presented a perfect excuse to get rid of Barnes, so he jumped at the opportunity.

“Oh, you go on without me, I need to do some shopping,” Tony pipes up, pointing a thumb towards the window.

Barnes pauses next to him, glancing at the indicated tailor shop. He looks back at Tony and raises an eyebrow.

“A little too fancy, no?”

“Being a four-year consecutive teenage heartthrob takes work.” Tony shrugs, knowing full well the wording would go over Barnes head.

Predictably, Barnes frowns in confusion, huffing a little breath of amusement as he says, “You’re a weird kid, Stark.”

“You’re literally two years older than me.”

Barnes’ frown deepens, in more pronounced bewilderment this time. “How would you know that?”

Tony freezes, looking up Barnes.

Shit.

“Larry told me,” he bullshits, hoping Barnes won’t dig deeper into the subject.

Barnes studies him in silence for a moment, during which Tony tries to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“You’re twenty-one? Really? You look eighteen, at the most,” Barnes quips and Tony heaves an internal sigh of relief.

Crisis avoided. He should really start paying more attention to what he says, especially around key characters in world history. He doesn’t want a Steve Rogers debacle repeat like yesterday.

“That’s what the id states.”

“Well, see you tomorrow then, heart-throb,” Barnes jokes, giving him a friendly pat on the back. “Don’t blow a hole in your wallet.”

“Sure thing. See you.”

Barnes nods and turns, walking away from the shop as Tony climbs the steps and pushes the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Bucky Barnes enters the scene! I’ve got plans for this flowering friendship ahaha, plans that will probably involve bucky playing matchmaker
> 
> Also I recognize that it’s really improbable someone would get a job like that, but what can I say, Larry is one crazy mofo and I claim fanfiction-logic privileges

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve tried to make this as era accurate as I could, so if you find something that doesn’t hit right with your 1940s knowledge of NY please let me know!
> 
> Just a warning that this will probably be sporadically updated at best. I do have sort of a timeline in my head for how I want this fic to go (and it will be big), but I don’t know how inspired or motivated I’ll be to write it (and I do have other things to write that might take precedence).
> 
> Comments and Kudos fuel me <3


End file.
